"You are my prisoner. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. Arrived at the audience-chamber, he set down the light upon a stand, threw open the door, and announced in a loud voice, but with the perfect intonation of the person he represented,—"Sir Rowland Trenchard. ’ ‘Well, sir? Who is “she”? Not my granddaughter, I take it. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin. . " "You'd better," replied Quilt.
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